Mr Limpney snatched the paper from the boy’s hand, and was about to tear it up, when the door opened and Dr Grayson entered.
“Well,” he said pleasantly, “and how are we getting on?”
“Getting on, sir?” said Mr Limpney tartly. “Will you have the goodness to ask my pupil!”
“To be sure—to be sure,” said the doctor. “Well, Dexter, how are you getting on? Eh? what’s this? Oh, Algebra!” he continued, as he took the half-sheet of paper covered with the boy’s calligraphy. “Oh, Algebra! Hah! I never was much of a fist at that.”
“Only simple equations, sir,” said the tutor.
“Ah, yes. Simple equations. Well, Dexter, how are you getting on?”
“Very badly, sir.”
“Badly? Nonsense!”
“But I am, sir. These things puzzle me dreadfully. I’m so stupid.”
“Stupid? Nonsense! Nothing of the kind. Scarcely anybody is stupid. Men who can’t understand some things understand others. Now, let’s see. What is the question? H’m! ah! yes, oranges. H’m! ah! yes; not difficult, I suppose, when you know how. And—what’s this? London and York—stage-coaches. Nine and a half miles, nine and a quarter miles, and—er—h’m, yes, of course, where would they meet?”